


till death do us unite

by julie4697



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archivist!Jon, Arranged Marriage, Lonely!Martin, M/M, Ritualistic Marriage, established relationship (kinda)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-18 23:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18127739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julie4697/pseuds/julie4697
Summary: Prompt: "Are you ready to see him?". Marriage as an alliance ritual.





	till death do us unite

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from @ughblackwood on twitter. This is my first time publishing fic for the fandom, despite maybe the 20-something backlogs I have saved, lol. Not betaed.

“Are you ready to see him?”

Jon says nothing. He knows that Peter knows that that’s all he’s been trying to do for the past few hours, uselessly; how he had strained, every fibre of his being yearning towards Martin until his nerves had been stretched thin, and still came away with nothing but fog in his eyes. Best to keep his jaws clenched, then, instead of a reply. He forces himself not to flinch away when Peter reaches forward to adjust his corsage for him. 

“You know, Archivist, it’s bad luck for the spouses to see each other before they’re properly wedded,” Peter continues, his tone mild. “And I have it on good authority that he looks fine, better than fine, even. You won’t be disappointed.” 

He lets Peter blindfold him and lead him out of the plush room; his footsteps are first muffled on carpet, then dirt, then something that cracks unpleasantly underfoot, until finally the long echoes of his steps on marble let him know they have arrived. There is no music, no guests, only a presence at the end of a hall that Jon doesn’t have to See to feel. 

Peter walks, as always, without a footfall, his hand steady and cold on Jon’s shoulder.

“Open your Eyes, Archivist,” Peter tells him. He does not remove the blindfold.

Jon opens them.

Immediately he lurches forward, nearly tripping in his haste to get to Martin who is standing, back turned to him, at the altar. His form is flickering rapidly in and out of Jon’s Vision, like a being made of static, and it is only when Jon does stumble and crash to the floor that Martin turns around. His hand is warm around Jon’s wrist as he helps him up, and an ache spreads inside Jon’s chest as he realizes he can’t actually See Martin’s face, not like this, when the shape of him is more an afterimage pressed inside his eyelids than anything he can focus on. His fingers reach up and fumble for Martin’s jaw, cupping the familiar line of his face in his palm.

“Martin,” he says, voice hoarse from disuse, “say something. Tell me it’s really you.”

From far behind him in the hall, Peter’s voice drifts down. “Oh, he can’t speak, Archivist,” he says, “at least not yet. And I wouldn’t try that either, Martin—“ this as Martin tugs at the blindfold tightly knotted behind Jon’s head—“I’m not sure that wouldn’t be disruptive to the ceremony. Though I think he’d be rather pleased to know you’re in that navy blue suit he likes. He does look quite dashing, you know, Archivist.”

Jon grips tightly onto Martin’s hand as they approach the altar, so tightly he can feel the blood thrumming in his fingers, and his heart jumps a little when Martin squeezes back. He seems to slide a little more into existence then, his silhouette just a little more solid and present—and Jon almost lets himself believe they can get through this ordeal, complete the ritual somehow in one piece, as long as they are together and keep their teeth gritted and hold on to each other until—

 _Congratulations to both of you,_ says Elias from inside his head. _What an honour to bear witness to this marriage._

Anger lurches sickly in Jon’s stomach. From the way Martin stiffens beside him, he must have heard it just as clearly, even as he can see Elias’ mouth smiling and unmoving above the altar. 

_Now, Jon,_ Elias continues, his voice sliding into Jon’s skull and nesting snake-like at the base of his mind, _take his vows._

Martin’s edges are shimmering again, this time more violently. Jon digs his nails into Martin’s palm. _Fuck off,_ he tells Elias. It feels like pushing against a wall of concrete. _At least have the integrity to say it out loud, you bastard._

_Don’t make this more difficult, Jon. He agreed to this. You both agreed to this._

_We didn’t ask for_ this.

_We’ve been over this, Jon. It is what you chose._

Martin lets out a shaky breath, and a noise that almost sounds like a whimper had it not died halfway in his throat. Jon feels something disentangle their fingers from each other’s, something soft and many-limbed and infinitely horrible in its gentleness; fear roots him to the spot as he realizes he had never sensed it there, hadn’t Seen it, exactly as it had wanted, skulking around in his blind spots. 

A tape recorder, somewhere unknown, clicks and hisses into life. The noise is like a gunshot in the vast and empty space.

_Whenever you’re ready, Jon._

Compulsion rises, black as bile, and fills Jon’s mouth. **“Say your vows, Martin.”**

“I, Martin Blackwood, take thee, Jonathan Sims, to my wedded husband,” Martin replies immediately, the words spilling forth too readily, and Jon wants to cry at how hollow he sounds— “from this day forward, never to have, never to hold, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, to love and to forget, till death do us unite; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

The thing has woven something tightly around Jon’s ring finger. It bites into his skin as if to draw blood. Jon clenches his fist.

_Is it my turn now, Elias?_

_Oh, that won’t be necessary,_ Elias replies, flippant. _But you may kiss him, if you like._

Jon isn’t sure he wants to. He has never wanted anything more in his life. 

When he lunges forward to take Martin’s face in his hands, ever solid and firm, he doesn’t need to be able to see to know exactly how to find his lips, and he presses his own against them in a desperate fervor that his groom returns. Jon tries to make it last, uses his teeth to mark the inside of Martin’s lip, tries to commit his taste to memory. Martin’s cheeks are slick with tears. 

“Martin,” Jon whispers, not caring that Elias is there, not caring that Peter and the Spider are listening close at hand, “Martin— I want to see you.”

He closes all his Eyes in anticipation as Martin slips the blindfold off. Weeks and weeks of isolation on both sides in preparation for the ceremony has erased parts of Martin’s face in Jon’s memory, sandpapered the features away, and the part of him that still yearns wants his weakest eyes, his human eyes, to drink them in first before he can Behold Martin in all his splendour. There is so much for him to See, to Know, so many corners and depths to explore, and if Jon chose this ritual over any other it is because Martin Blackwood is a person he can spend the rest of his life studying, forever in his orbit, like a stone he can turn over and over in his palm and slip, still warm, into his breast pocket. 

The light hits his closed eyes and Jon inhales sharply. His eyelids flutter open.

“Oh,” he breathes. The sound catches helplessly in his throat.

Martin smiles sadly at him. “I’ll see you again soon, Jon.”

Then everything is gone. 

The world is choked once again in a thick fog. He can make out the silhouettes of the benches in what appears to be a church hall, the faint outline of the stone altar, and behind it, the makings of a stained-glass window; he can’t decipher what the image is meant to be. He slowly turns around and walks down the hall back to the entrance.

His right ring finger has a thread wrapped around it, silvery and barely visible through the fog of the Lonely. It leads off somewhere into the distance, a promise that he knows will kill him should he try to chase it. There is no end to the thread, at least not here, and it will be his only anchor to sanity until his time here is up and he can rejoin, however briefly, the man who married him, before they are to trade places once more. Till death do us unite. Repeat ad nauseam. There’s a faint seawater tang in the air that reminds Jon of rocking ships, and his knees feel weak. 

If Peter is kind enough, or Elias willing, there may be a tape or two for him to find during his stay here. Maybe some of them may even be from Martin directly. In this tenuous alliance they do need their Archivist somewhat subdued, after all, and absence may make the heart grow fonder, but glimpses of presence makes the heart break. For the last time, fully aware of its futility, Jon opens all his Eyes very wide; he Sees nothing but into the depths of his own memory, where the final image of Martin, a non-person, all his edges bleeding into the fabric of reality, is indelibly seared. He Knows, and knows, that Martin exiling him here as fast as he could was a mercy to them both. At least here he can admit, maybe even out loud, that despite everything—because of everything—they have already long lost each other.

Picking at the anemone pinned to his chest, Jonathan Sims begins his bitter honeymoon.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and feedback much appreciated. Come find me at @agnesmontague on tumblr :)


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